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SURFER BLOOD’s fourth album, Snowdonia, (in stores Feb 3, 2017) is a return to their DIY recording roots, and at the same time, an ambitious step forward, musically and lyrically. Along with plenty of Surfer Blood’s signature catchy pop hooks, the band also concocted several epic and more complex songs with enormous attention to sonic detail. John Paul Pitts wrote and mixed the album alone, for the first time since their debut Astro Coast. The immediacy is intoxicating and the results are fantastic. Surfer Blood get better and better with each album, and we’re betting that they’ll be making great records for many years to come.

Surfer Blood are a magnificent indie rock band from West Palm Beach, Florida that formed when guitarist/vocalist John Paul Pitts and drummer Tyler Schwarz started playing better-than-great musical notes together in Dreyfoos High School. New members Mikey McCleary and Lindsey Mills also attended the same high school.

Surfer Blood began recording and touring immediately behind their infectious debut, Astro Coast (2010) and quickly took over almost the entire world (except for the deepest realms of the ocean and really, really cold places). The group followed suit with the Tarot Classics EP (2011), Pythons (2013) and 1000 Palms (2015). Surfer Blood have performed in 5 continents, toured with heroes like The Pixies and Guided By Voices, played on TV, at Coachella and giant festivals throughout the world, while also occasionally plugging in their amps at all-ages house parties. Surfer Blood are the cleanest and nicest band in existence.

I’ve disconnected the doorbell; the phone is off the hook. The post office has been instructed to return all mail sent c/o Box 489 directly back to sender. These extreme actions have not been made in haste. The past year-plus has plum worn me out.
Ever since Slumberland Records lost a bet and released 2012’s Killing Time, it seems that the bored drudges of this outhouse Earth have done nothing but follow that album title’s orders, a.k.a. harass me. (Lord knows the everyday “fan” of these “guys” has nothing better to do). Visitors, calls, letters. Look, I know I’m the only known liaison to the men behind the man, but that doesn’t mean I have the answer to the burning question on everyone’s melon: WHEN IS THE NEXT TERRY MALTS ALBUM COMING OUT?!

Oh, wait, actually I do know the answer to that one! Terry Malts’ brand-new platter, Nobody Realizes This Is Nowhere, is being released on September 10, 2013, once again on Slumberland Records. The official full-length follow-up to last year’s year-end-list-thrashing debut, hot on the heels of two more blistering 7”s in the meantime.

Who are these Nobodies? Where is this Nowhere? The same crack-staff has been employed: Phil Benson (bass, vocals), Corey Cunningham (guitar, throat), and Nathan Sweatt (drums, confusion), recorded by they-damn-selfs in their “San Francisco practice space”, and again mixed by Monte Vallier (Weekend, Half Church). Hey, Parrothead: changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes, right? Right! Which is why the Malts tropes you’ve come to know and love haven’t gone anywhere: anger, hatred, exhaustion, delusion, seclusion, consumption, life, death, breathing, eating, and probably some sensitivity or something. It’s all right in front of your earballs!

Considering a stiff breeze could blow your web address over, take this “press-release” as a “warning.” NRTIN is a punch in the gut, a kick to the teeth, a tickle exactly where you want it (wink, wink). This thing is the toupee of your record collection: throw it on top of that embarrassing stack o’ wax by the stereo to instantly transform your reputation.

Look, we can’t do everything to help out you and those of your odor, but giving you this news is a step in the right direction. And this is coming straight from the top floor. Terry Malts’ Nobody Realizes This Is Nowhere shreds. It blasts. It blows (a good thing!). A dynamite record, that’ll prolly say “Play It Loud!” or whatever in the liners. But seriously, folks… listen to this thing and leave me alone!

Terry: just like the days of our pathetic weeks, a name that ends in “why…?”